


Alec Hardy Headcanon Drabble Collection

by UglyWettieWrites



Category: Alec Hardy - Fandom, Broadchurch
Genre: Alec Hardy Headcanons, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Headcanon, Multi, One Shot Collection, Random & Short, Shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyWettieWrites/pseuds/UglyWettieWrites
Summary: This is a small collection of drabbles I wrote in response to possible Hardy headcanons on Tumblr.





	1. Alec & His Mum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Alec secretly likes kites; not even his family knows."

He did like kites, but there is a reason why he never flew one with Daisy, and why they make his eyes tear he sees them flying overhead near the beach. They remind him of his mum.

* * *

He flew kites with his mother, back when he was a child. It was one of the few things he loved about Broadchurch - the giant cliffs made the best wind, and they were strong enough to nearly blow him away.

He loved the hum of the string and the sharp snapping of the paper as it flew nearly 100 feet above him, but best of all he loved watching his mother running around him, the grass nearly up to her knees, clapping and squealing as he walked closer to the edge of the cliff.

They had a secret ritual with kites.

The first time, they stood right at the edge, with nothing but sky and sea before them, and she knelt beside him so they were equals.

“Let it go,” she whispered in his ear. “Let it be free.”

“But … I like it.” He pouted.

“Did you like going to the shop, and picking it out?” 

“Yes. It was fun.” At this, he bounced.

“Then by all means, we must do it again tomorrow!”

“But … da will be feshed.”

“About what?”

“The money.”

“Da will be fine,” she said, laughing hard. She loved to say that, because it was true. She could always make him fine. “It’s my money anyway,” she whispered in her ear. “Our special kite money.”

He looked up. It was at the very end of nearly 200 ft of string. The winds were searingly strong, but he was safe. His mom’s arm was around his waist.

“Let it go?” he said. 

“It can eat through all the wind it pleases, then, when it’s glutted, plummet into the moonlit sea,” she said, moving her hand gracefully. She held him tight. She loved her words, although he couldn’t understand all of them yet. But he would. He read every night.

“Glutted?”

She nuzzled his temple, and plucked at the taut kite string. “It means really full. Like you after Sunday dinner,” she said, poking his belly. 

“Oh,” he said through giggles. The kite was a red spot in the darkening blue of the sky - the sun was setting. “But … why does it have to drown? Why can’t we keep it? I’ll take the best care of it.  It will last all summer, and you won’t have to spend your book money!”

His mother’s smile faded. “But it will always be on a string, and so easily pulled …” she said softly. He didn’t understand. He dared to use only one hand, and put the other on her cheek.

“Ma?”

She turned to him, smile on again.

“Nonsense. I want to see it flying, whipping freely in the winds swirling up from the cliffs, and disappear. Don’t you?” she said. She clung to him almost painfully. She was getting anxious, he could tell. If she wanted him to let go, he would. He would do anything for her.

“Okay, ma. Do I just let go of the spool?”

“Oh no. We’ll just … cut the string. The spool will just weight it down.” She went into her bag, and brought out a pair of embroidery scissors. She gave him a conspiratorial look. “You ready?”

“Yes!” he said. There was a moment of sadness, since he liked his new kite, but, like she said, there would be another one tomorrow. He smiled bravely.

With a snip, he fell back into her arms, and as the sun set into the water, they watched the kite fly over the sea, lower, and lower, until it disappeared.


	2. Alec & His Beard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "One day Hardy got food stuck on his beard, and didn’t even notice it. He was baffled why throughout the day everyone he was physically close to had a big smile on their faces."

They looked, and mirth danced in their eyes. Especially in the women’s eyes. It made him insecure.

He didn’t dare breathe the thought. Was he … not Shit-face anymore? 

Ellie fixed him in one look.

“Oh my god-” she burst out laughing hard enough to bend over. She held her knees and swayed.

“What? What is it?” he said, looking around. She wasn’t usually so silly.

“Jesus, Hardy, you really never look at yourself in the mirror, do ye? Not even after taking a leak?” She looked at him, and a fresh gale of laughter made her eyes water.

“What are you going on about?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. She was getting irritating.

“What did you have for lunch?” she said, a propos of nothing.

“Nothing really. Some dry toast-” He sighed. She giggled and nodded. He brushed off his beard, and golden crumbs, a lot of them, rained down on his shirt.

He groaned. “Shit!” His cheeks burned. “How did no one tell me?” he said, slapping at his shirt with disgust.

“Because you’re usually so scary. For a bit, you were just a normal man, walking around with crumbs in his beard-” she started to laugh again, this time leaning against his desk and hugging her stomach. Tears formed at the edges of her eyes.

“Oh Lord - oh Jesus - imagine if you -” she couldn’t get the words out, but she pointed at his face, trembling - “imagine if you’d gone outside and the gulls - _Jesus, the gulls-_ ” the last word turned into a squeal, and there was more laughter.

He sat down and rolled his eyes, waiting for her settle. Honestly, he was a bit put out. Not one person had told him. _Not one_. Was he that unpleasant?

Ellie wiped her eyes and sat down by the door. He avoided eye contact with her.

“Don’t be angry,” she said, going into her bag and pulled out a sleeve of shortbread, the one biscuit she knew he could not resist. “Little Fred’s doing better, but he took up all my attention today. Didn’t have time for even one bite.” She opened the packaging and held it out. “Fancy a biscuit?”

He walked over and took two, biting into both with alacrity. “Needth tea,” he said, speaking with his mouth full. Again, crumbs rained down on his beard.

“Indeed,” she said, settling into her corner of the seat. “You should get on it, then.” She smiled at him.

He returned it, in the eyes.


	3. Why Hardy Stopped Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Hardy stopped smoking because young, stubborn, Daisy bugged him how unhealthy they are."

He bent to kiss her cheeks, but she gently turned him away.

“What? You’re too cool to get a kiss from your da in public?”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “No. It’s not that.” She pointed to the smoking cigarette in his hand. “It makes me smell.”

His face twitched, then he sighed. “Oh.”

She kicked at the sidewalk, scuffing the front of her new Mary Janes, which she hated. He took a deep drag, then dropped the cig, crushing it under his heel.

“I get it,” he said, his mouth dragon-like on the exhale. She waved her hand over her face and coughed dramatically.

“Second-hand smoke kills, da. But more importantly, it makes me reek.” A group of uniformed kids ran by them and into the gates of the school, laughing riotously. One of their bookbags hit Daisy. He resisted hissing at them, but she didn’t even notice.

“You smell like one of the cool kids,” he said, thinking back. That’s how he’d started, back when he was thirteen. But Daisy was different. 

“No, da. Seriously, though. I want you around … for a while. As long as possible.” She clutched his trench coat and looked up at him, a bold gesture for a 12-year old girl to do to her father, there. She was growing, but her skin was still velvety and clear - puberty had not changed it. But her eyes remained the same - emotive and blue, like his father.

He caressed her, then dug into his pocket for gum.

“Please. Do it for my birthday. It will be far better than a party or anything like that,” she said.

“You sure about that?” he said, chewing briskly. “I might just take you up on it, if only for the savings.” He wanted to pat her head, smooth down the flyaways in her blond hair, but he resisted. 

“Yes,” she said, giving his coat a last tug before letting go. “But do you even remember my birthday?”

“I’ll never live that down,” he said, looking out into the street, but he was smiling. “You were nine.”

“You almost got it - you were only 30 hours late for the party,” she said, shifting her bookbag.

“I couldn’t quite remember that, but I remember the color of the beanie I put on you when I took you home for the first time. I remember the first time you laughed out loud, the fact that you inexplicably have always hated peas-”  
  


She wrinkled her nose. “Eww. I don’t get why you like ‘em so much. They’re like eggs.  Little grass eggs-”

“You started playing football because I said I hated it,” he said, laughing. “And you’re damn good at it too. You live to defy me. If my da could only have met you - he’d complain of double vision.”

“Then I _want_ you to smoke. Like a chimney. Until you go grey and sooty and wheezy. I demand it.” she said, smiling, but there was an urgency in her eyes that made his throat clench.

A professor started to call the stragglers in - it was time to start the day. 

“Mum will come get you when school’s out,” he said, and bent again to kiss her. And again, she turned away, although she caressed him, and booped his nose.

“Please, da,” she said. “My birthday’s only a week away. Do it for me,” she said. She took a step, then turned again and kissed the tip of his nose. “Be brave, but come home,” she said, her little mantra for both him and Tess, then she ran up the the stairs, waving.

He walked to his car and stepped inside, his left hand already reaching for his packet of cigarettes in the cupholder. It was an unconscious thing - something he had done since he was a teen.

He started the car, then opened the packet, hitting it on the steering wheel so one cigarette popped out for him to grab with his lips. It felt so nice - its weight, and the slightly bitter taste of the paper before he lit up. It calmed him, helped him focus on the task at hand. Murders and robberies and rapes, all their horror dulled by the ever-comforting veil of smoke.

He thought back on Daisy’s lovely face, and her turning away from him. She said he made her reek. She didn’t let him kiss her, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t until he gave them up-

The lighter paused on the way to the tip of the ciggie. His hand trembled. His mouth watered for its smoke.

His 12 year old daughter wanted him around … “for a while.” She was willing to forgo cake and glitter and a houseful of giggling girls to see him quit. 

The cigarette trembled now, still unlit.

“Shit,” he said, and grabbed it off his lip, but carefully slid it back into the carton. 

It might not remain unsmoked, but right then, just as he pulled into traffic, he made a promise. He had a week to get used to the idea of no smokes. And for her, he would sure as fuck do it.


	4. Alec & Tess - the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Alec gave up close-shaving his beard because a facial scar would keep on opening up whenever he tries it."

> **Alec gave up close-shaving his beard because a facial scar would keep on opening up whenever he tries it.**

But what could the scar be from?

Could it be … from trying to beat up the man who Tess was sleeping with? It was unlike him, and a stupid idea, but his life was falling apart, and he wanted something to hurt like he was hurting.

Still, the man was younger, he was stronger, and he was smug in Tess’s passion for him, so he won the fight before he threw the first punch. 

The bastard got him in the jaw and split the skin over his chin. Tess was shocked he would throw a punch for her, but it didn’t matter anymore. Her love had faded to nothing, and she was just embarrassed for him.

Still, after months, when he shaved the scar was small but accusatory - too pink against his pale complexion, and tender. What’s worse, Tess was gone. He’d fought for nothing. So although he’d been clean shaven for all his adult life, he began to let his beard grow out in middle age.

At first, he hated it, but not as much as the scar, and what it reminded him of. After a while, he got used to it. He was a different man. His face might as well match his life.

* * *

 

The worst part was the silence.

He nursed his hurt chin and stared at the coffee table drawer, where there was a carton of cigarettes with the plastic still on it.

“Aren’t you gonna say something, then?” she said, putting her hand on her hip. 

He shifted the bag of ice. “There’s nothing left to say. It’s all here,” he said, referring to the divorce papers on his lap.

She thought she would be jubilant when this day came, but misery pulled at the edges of her anger. She wanted to leave him. She wanted something else, something new, something beyond his silences. But if she did, why was she queasy?

She took off her jacket and kicked off her shoes. 

“I don’t think you should stay here anymore,” she said. 

At that, he reacted. “But … what about Daiz? I thought we would keep this a secret until we had a chance to talk to her.” 

She rolled her eyes. “She can’t see you like that, can she? You’ve got three stitches in your chin. Honestly. He could’ve killed you.”

Alec’s jaw worked. He already had. The _boy_ wrested his family from him, with a sleepy blink of his lovely blue eyes. But why so easily? They were a team, in every sense of the word - at work, and at home, as lovers and parents.

Well, perhaps not so much as lovers, lately. The Sandbrook case had stolen his peace of mind, and he couldn’t get that girl’s poor decayed face out of his head - her waterlogged weight, her stringy hair falling from her rotting scalp and sticking to his trembling hands -

He thought that was the worst thing ever. But it wasn’t. It was having to stand in front of the sargeant and get the bollocking of his life for losing evidence, for fucking up the case he had wept over, to protect his unfaithful wife.

His unfaithful, soon to be ex-wife. After a lifetime, nearly 20 years of believing them a team, she had not stepped forward to confess as the press excoriated him and called him ‘the worst cop in Britain’. She had walked through the swarms of press camped in their front yard, her lips pressed together with shame and anger. 

He had cried, begged, and promised to forgive and forget, but his shame, the shame he carried for her, disgusted her. There was nothing left for him in her heart.

Her doors had shut to him, forever. He slammed the papers on the coffee table, and she saw his scrawling signature was already there.

“We need to talk to Daisy,” he said. “Please. Before I leave.”

“So you’ll go?” she said. The light from the kitchen surrounded her in a golden halo. It hurt to look at her, so he looked out the window.

“I will go. And there’s no need for further drama. You can have the house, and the SUV. I will help you care for Daisy. I will tell my solicitor to draw up the papers.”

She sat down across from him, in an armchair. “Good.”

“Good,” he repeated, but the word was swallowed up by a coughing sob. 

“We’ll talk to her tonight, and you can be on your way. I’m sick of the media parked in our front yard,” she said. “They make my skin crawl.”

Tears slid down his still close-shaven cheeks and soaked into the bandage. The salt water burned. She eyed his shirt, still spattered with his blood. Her mouth twisted with distaste, then she looked at her watch.

“Get yourself together. Football practice has been done for 20 minutes. She should be here any moment.”

He looked out at the setting sun, and the very last bit of his heart broke. All things end. And now he must prepare for the night ahead.


	5. Alec & Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Loving theses Alec flash stories. Thanks a bunches for them! Hmmm, my Canon would be based on an ex- of mine: his preference of foreplay is snuggling. If we were alone, and snuggled a good while, he'd go all the way."

“ _And now she became aware of the small, bud-like reticence and tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder and poignancy-_ “

“Why don’t you cry?” Alec said, backing into her as he wiggled his hips. He was the little spoon, and he insisted that she read to him. This time, he had picked _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_.

“At what?” she said, nuzzling into his temple.

“My bud-like reticence,” he said, but his voice trembled with the urge to laugh.

“It’s hardly bud-like,” she said. He turned to her and wiggled his eyebrows. She leaned in and gave him a soft, lingering kiss. He tasted of the Sourpatch Kids he was eating. He wasn’t usually so keen on candy, but that night, he craved sugar.

“Or reticent. Thank goodness,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers. He lay his head on her other arm, and it crossed his chest, holding him to her.

“It can be,” she said.

“How?” he said, wrinkling his brow.

She lightly tugged on his soft earlobe with her teeth. “You’re not always … _ready_. And when you’re not, it looks tender. Vulnerable. Reticent.” She kissed him along his cheekbone, between smooth skin and where his beard grew. “It’s nice,” she said.

“My floppy cock?” he said, chuckling.

She burst out laughing. “For a writer to take the time to describe a man’s vulnerability in such a situation, and not just the woman’s. I’ve gotten enough of heaving breasts and tender clefts,” she said. “He’s a man, to boot. It’s intrepid.”

“Well, I haven’t, nor will I in the near future,” he said, kissing her palm and rubbing her fingers against his lips. They were soft and hot. He bit the pad of her middle finger, and flicked his tongue on it. She had sugar on it. Still, it was intensely intimate.

“You haven’t what?” she said, pressing her other fingers against his lips. She didn’t know whether they were sugared. She just wanted to feel the heat of his mouth.

“Gotten enough of heaving breasts and tender cleft,” he said. “Singular.”

“You asked me to read. Are you going to let me finish?” she said. She draped her leg over his hip and rubbed it against him.

“By all means,” he said, leaning into her.

“ _…And now in her heart the queer wonder of him was awakened. A man! the strange potency of manhood upon her! Her hands strayed over him, still a little afraid-_ “

He moved her free hand underneath his sweater and up to his chest. She gently scratched at his chest hair, then caressed.

“ _Afraid of that strange, hostile, slightly repulsive thing that had been to her, a man. And now she touched him and it was the sons of god and the daughters of men-_ “

“You have the softest, silkiest skin,” she said, nuzzling into his thick hair. “Have I told you that?” She took a deep breath of the pheromones trapped in his scalp.

“You have. And maybe that’s why I moisturize more often now. I used that cherry-almond lotion you keep in the bathroom this morning.”

She took a deep breath of his neck. “Mmmmm yes,” she said, purring into the smooth skin right below where his beard ended. She pressed kisses up to his jaw. He glowed with her tender affections. Tess had never done this. He had wanted it, terribly, but she wasn’t the type of woman to sit for a couple of hours on the sofa and just hold him. And how would he ask anyway?

He would not have known where to start.

But this woman - she had offered. And he loved every second. She didn’t push, make him feel like less of a man for not trying to stick his hand down her pants in the first ten minutes. She didn’t mind holding him, for uncounted minutes, just basking in their shared warmth until …

It didn’t always have to lead to more. But it was amazing when it did.

He pulled the book from her hand and turned to face her.

“Hey, it was just getting metaphysical,” she said, but she pressed her forehead against his. He put his arm around her waist and they breathed, foreheads pressed together. She reached up to caress his beard. “This is nice.”

“Thank goodness your breath smells like lime, and not the bbq crisps you had earlier,” he said, poking at her side.

“Hardeeharhar,” she said, and bit his lower lip. “And if it did?”

“I’d adore this anyway … but I’d also be peckish for some crisps,” he said, kissing her with surprising intensity. His leg moved between hers, but he stopped at her thighs.

She was getting breathless, but she knew him too well. This was just the beginning. He could cuddle for hours, tease her with steadily deepening kisses until she clung to him, begging him for release. And every second was delicious.

“Want to watch some TV?” she said, her hand sliding underneath his sweater and tracing up his back.

He pouted. “You’re entertaining enough for me,” he said, and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Want me to read another book then?”

He tucked a tendril of her hair behind her ear. “Your thoughts will suffice,” he said. His brown eyes crackled with golden warmth.

She smiled. “That book has got nothing on my thoughts,” she said, winking at him.

“Ohhh,” he said, pulling her closer. They were chest to chest, side by side on the overstuffed sofa. “Then you must tell me everything,” he said, and pressed his ear to her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Fred heard his mom joke about how skinmy Uncle Alec is, but he takes it seriously. So every time the Harry’s and Miller’s get together, Fred would climb up to Alec’s height and hand feed snacks. Alec, with grace, eats the cheerios pressed to his lips."

Alec liked sitting in the corner of Ellie’s sofa. Not only was it comfortable, but a perfect vantage point from which he could observe everything going in both the kitchen and the living room.

Ellie was busy serving up dessert, a cheesecake top-heavy with strawberries in celebration of summer. He had barely eaten lunch, moroccan roasted chicken and prunes, although everyone else had raved about it. He liked chicken, but the marriage of meat and stone-fruit had not convinced him.

To top it off, he hated cheesecake. It’s sickly white belly, cadaver-cold, made him want to gag. That’s why he had excused himself from the table and moved to the living room.

He liked the fact the children would invariably bring their desserts here, surround him and watch Sunday afternoon tv. He loved their energy and warmth.

Tom came in first and silently sat on the other side of the sofa, already with a mouthful of cheesecake. Then, came Daisy, who sat at his feet. Her long ponytail made a pool of gold on his knees. He stroked her head, once, gently. She looked up at him and smiled, then turned back to her dessert. She held up a plump strawberry. 

“Want it? It’s clean,” she said, wiggling it. 

He plucked it from her hand. “You didn’t lick it clean, did ye?” he said.

“Eww. No, da,” she said, making a face.

“Ta.” He popped it in his mouth, and couldn’t refrain from smiling. It was intensely sweet and juicy, as only in season fruit could be. Before he could tap her head for another, Ellie walked in with a bowl and handed it to him before sitting down in the chair beside him. It was full of hulled, freshly washed berries.

“Eat,” she said, and smiled at him before turning on the TV. “Who wants to watch a movie? We’ve got the last Avengers in!”

“I’ve already watched it,” Tom said, in his adolescent monotone. His mouth was still full of cheesecake.

“But Daisy hasn’t, right, love?” Ellie said. “And me neither.”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t care if you watch it,” he said. “It’s whatever.”

“Freddie, could you pop it in the player?” she said, and the boy, in a Spider-man t-shirt and jeans, obeyed. As it started, the little boy kicked off his tennies and crawled beside Alec with a little zipper bag full of Cheerios.

He had also not been a fan of the chicken and prunes, and only picked at the vegetables. 

Alec put his arm up on the sofa, and Freddie leaned into him, crunching on the little rings.

“You don’t like cheesecake?” Alec whispered to him, patting his curly hair.

He made a face and shook his head.

“Me neither,” Alec said. Freddie smiled, and extended his legs out, but even fully extended, they were not as long as Uncle Alec’s. He wanted to be tall like him one day. Tall, and tough, but with the kind eyes.

He looked down at his bag of Cheerios. They were his favorite, and they were his last bag - his mum wouldn’t go to the store for days, so he had to make them last. Still, he saw Uncle Alec had barely eaten, like him. And like him, he had to be hungry. His mum always joked that he was too thin, and he was - way thinner than the other dads who went to pick his friends up from school. Maybe he was just like him. Alec also didn’t like fruity chicken and cheesy cake, and he needed to be introduced to the yumminess of Cheerios. 

He held up the bag. “Want some?” Fred said shyly. “They’re the honey kind. Real good.”

Alec started to shake his head no, but Fred pressed a couple of rings to his lips and nodded. 

“Try,” the little one said.

Alec ate them dutifully, but his face changed. For years, he thought Cheerios were pappy kid’s food. But these crunchy little rings were delicious, especially with the fading taste of strawberry in his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said, putting his arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders. “Thanks, Freddie.” 

The boy held out the bag again. “Get more.” 

Alec took a small handful, then held out the bowl of strawberries.

“They’re good with the Cheerios.”

The little one grabbed one with his chubby fingers and they sat there for the rest of the movie, contentedly eating their shared meal.


	7. Hardy's Favorite TV Show as a kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Hardy’s favorite show growing up was Columbo."

It was, and it started because of his father.

His dad was both passionate and withdrawn, incredibly clever but also obtuse. Set in his ways. And he also tended to chew cigars, because he was too impatient to smoke them to get the nicotine hit.

His father was not a detective - in fact, he had despised the cops, but it was only because of his misspent youth in Glasgow. Now, he was peaceful, and withdrawn to the point of being a hermit.

His writing was everything, but whenever the TV Guide said there was going to be another episode of Columbo, he was front and center. 

At first, Alec was not convinced. He thought it was just another cop show, which he wasn’t terribly interested in … but he realized quickly that he loved his father best during these moments. His bitterness would disappear and even the lines on his face would fade as he pointed and guffawed at the screen every time someone tried to outsmart Columbo.

It was something they could share together. Although he couldn’t really talk during the hsow, they were bonding in their shared enjoyment of the rumpled detective’s exploits, and love grew as they sipped on bottles of coke with salted peanuts thrown in - the perfect marriage of salty and sweet - in the semidarkness of the living room.

Now the scent of damp tobacco and cola reminded him of those evenings with his father, and how proud he was when he told him that he was going to police academy after he graduated university.

“My boy, a hardnose cop like Columbo!” he roared from his wheelchair, then dissolved into a fit of coughing. The cigars had not done him well. He patted his father’s sloping shoulders and held back his tears.

If only he could see he didn’t really want to be like Columbo. He wanted to be a writer, like his father. But his father could not, and would not countenance it. He wanted Alec to be successful, and content, unlike him. After everything they’d been through, his father would not accept anything less.

Even now, when an episode came on at night, his eyes watered as Daisy sat at his feet, just like he had sat at his father’s feet. She said she wanted to be a detective, but he saw that savage, clever glint in her eyes - it was not to please him, but because it was in her blood.

But he wished with all his heart that it could be otherwise, and that she picked a kinder, gentler profession. He told her so, but she was as stubborn as her grandfather. She had his blue eyes, his hard head, and his athletic, pugnacious attitude. She would not be moved.

Still, they had cola and salted peanuts, a treat that made Tess gag, and watched in silence. Daisy wrapped her arm around his leg and leaned on him, pointing and guffawing every time some fool tried to outsmart the rumpled, slow-talking detective.

And his heart spilled over with love.


	8. Hardy's Teen Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Hardy listened to punk as a teen. He figured if he played guitar like a punk rocker, then he’d have more friends and chicks. Too bad the punk he listened was ten years old. Ancient for most teens."

This is very much like a [kilometric headcanon tag minific](http://uglywettiewrites.tumblr.com/post/163150289422/aneclipsedhabitue) I wrote a while ago, but in my headcanon, it wasn’t for the girls. His anger, especially from the ages of 12 to 16, made him too self-involved and intense to be palatable to the average schoolgirl. In any case, he avoided girls for most of his teenage years. Although he desired them, they hurt too much.

* * *

Hardy didn’t fit In the new pastel aesthetics and smooth synth-driven art pop world of the mid 80′s. He was fresh from his most life-changing heartbreak, and the pain was finally solidifying into anger.

He was furious. Sometimes, when he got home to a cold house after school, he would stand in the middle of the living room and tremble with it until his saliva turned bitter in his mouth.

There were no more languid teas and afternoon walks with his mum. And his father had locked himself away with his grief, leaving Hardy to fend for himself.

David Bowie and the Beatles didn’t do it for him anymore, not to mention the saccharine American bullshit that had taken over the radio … it made him want to throw his radio on the ground and stomp on it until the shards crunched underneath his shoes. When his classmates mentioned the latest hit from Depeche Mode or Prince or the biggest twats of them all, the fucking Police, it took everything not to growl and shinkick them.

But he resisted. He had already gotten in enough trouble, and his father promised fire and brimstone if the school called him in again.

He discovered punk quite by accident. He was walking home, quite alone, when he heard discordant grinding guitars coming from an alley by a butcher’s shop in town. As he got closer,  he heard meaty thuds, and grunts. His heart raced, but he dared to look. There was a group of older kids, and even some young men, shirtless and bleeding. They wore combat boots and torn tight black pants covered in patches. Chains hung from their beltloops, and some of them had tattoos. They fought to the music, pushing each other against the brick or slamming each other to the dirty boxes lining the ground. They bled, and growled, but they were smiling. 

One of the them saw him watching, a meaty dude with a fat belly hanging over the waistband of his pants.

“Oy, you there. _Fuck off!_ ” he said, rushing toward him. Hardy was fascinated. His hair stuck out in radioactive green spikes from his scalp. The fleshy young man slapped him, and repeated himself.

“Get the fuck outta here or I’ll punch yer balls inter your belly,” he said. He was redfaced with rage and whiskey. But Hardy was enthralled.

“What is that music?” he said, wiping the kid’s sweat from his cheek. He tasted blood, and spit it to the ground. The other young men stopped fighting and stared.

“Why the fuck do you wanna know? Go back to huggin’ yer ma’s knee, you little cunt,” the tallest of them said. He wiped blood from his mouth, then spit where Hardy had spit. His head was shaved, and there was still a smattering of adolescent acne across his forehead.

“My ma’s dead,” Hardy said, his face set in stone.

The fat one grabbed his collar and shook him hard enough to make him bite his tongue. Still, he started to laugh.

“Are they saying what I think they’re sayin’?” Hardy said. He dropped his bookbag.

The kids looked at each other, gauging Hardy’s reaction. The one with the radioactive hair slapped him again. “What of it?”

Hardy was tickled. He spit blood again. “[Maggie … you cunt?](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DEwnkFlVRCZc&t=YzJlOWZiZTI3YzY0MDk1MTk5YWRkYjIxOWUzZjk4ZDY3NWMyZTJkZSxmUHYzMk9UbQ%3D%3D&b=t%3APJsTYpSzYK7YQK4tJnybjQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fuglywettiewrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165744237702%2Falec-hardy-headcanon-anons-7-hardys-teens&m=1)” he said, then burst out laughing again. “Maggie you cunt!” he said louder, walking toward the radio. “They talking about Margaret Thatcher?” The tallest moved to kick him away, but he just turned it up and stood there, listening, with a smile on his face.

“It’s the new shit from the Exploited,” another kid chimed in. He was closer to Hardy’s age. He still had his school pants on, but he was bare from the waist up. There was an anarchy symbol scrawled across his back in marker. “You like it?”

Hardy looked him up and down. “Aye. I was gonnae throw someone off a bridge if I had to hear [Shout](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DZEWwZNUafKo&t=ZGM5N2EwYTFmZDNiMjQ3NGE1NWU5ZTUxN2Q4ZmNkOTEyYzllZGNjNCxmUHYzMk9UbQ%3D%3D&b=t%3APJsTYpSzYK7YQK4tJnybjQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fuglywettiewrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165744237702%2Falec-hardy-headcanon-anons-7-hardys-teens&m=1) one more feckin’ time,” he said.

The kid laughed and pounded Hardy’s back. “Same. That fat fucker there introduced me to my peace of mind,” he said, pointing at the older boy who had manhandled him. “Loosened a couple teeth while doing it, but it’s the price to play,” he said. When he smiled, part of his front tooth was missing.

“Adds character, mate,” Hardy said.

“He’s a funny one,” the tallest said, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. “Your face could use a bit of character,” he said. The song changed, but the frenetic guitars remained the same. His muscles tensed in a fight or flight response, but he felt … euphoric. His anger had a place in this alley, with these people. It was welcome.

“The name’s McTavish,” the tall boy said, and stalked up to him. Hardy’s heart beat in his ears, but he was ready to fight. “And I’m gonnae fuck you up.”

Hardy took the first punch on purpose, but surprisingly, he didn’t have to take many more after that.

He was wiry, and more pissed that all those boys put together. He earned their respect soon enough. He wasn’t afraid of a little blood.


	9. Hardy & Daisy - Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following anonymous headcanon:
> 
> "Hardy silently nods to Daisy’s music."

Considering his uncharacteristic musical taste, I see the diametric opposite of this happening …

[while living in their cottage in Broadchurch]

Daisy pressed her ear against the wall. Her dad’s office/man cave was the room right beside her bedroom, and he was blasting his music. 

By this point, it was a game. He knew she might knock, or if they were riding in the car together, she would ask who it was. This time, it was a bit dark, and the singer’s voice was melodic and plaintive. She held up her phone and tried to use an app to recognize the song so she didn’t have to disturb him, but it wasn’t quite that loud. She lay back in bed with her laptop - she could ask him later. 

[He skipped the song, and another started to play. The intro throbbed slowly, then crashed into the first verse.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DfEWdjtMmqGo&t=MzNkM2FkMzEwODUwMjU4YzY2MDFiMjUzN2Q2ZmE3NWMwODdlYTdhZSxQZHBHdFRwdA%3D%3D&b=t%3APJsTYpSzYK7YQK4tJnybjQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fuglywettiewrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165914865887%2Falec-hardy-headcanon-anons-8-hardys-life&m=1) Shit, it was good.

“Fine. I’ll bite,” she whispered, and knocked on his office door. The song played on. The singer seemed to alternate between tortured screaming and softness. She knocked louder.

“Ya?” Hardy yelled.

“Open up, da. It’s me.”

“Dinner ready?” he asked, teasing her.

She waited, hand on her hip, as he took his sweet time. The volume increased slightly. She rolled her eyes. She was about to walk away when the door whooshed opened, and he pulled her in, a giant grin on his face. She giggled as he locked the door and threw himself on his cracked leather sofa, crossing his ankles. He was in jeans and an Exploited t-shirt so old the cloth was nearly transparent. 

“Is it too loud?” he asked, looking entirely too delighted.

“Never,” Daisy said, looking around. She liked his office. He had his DVDs and CDs on the shelves, and his odd memorabilia from four decades of living. In his space, it smelled of warm skin, and the peanut butter he’d been eating on crackers.

It smelled like him.

He moved his foot to the music and laced his fingers behind his head.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to an lumpy armchair that made her squint with its ugliness. It was a vomitous plaid, and the cloth of the arms were so worn out he had duct taped them - not with the default silver duct tape, but a strange plaid printed version he found in an art store while questioning the proprietors after a robbery.  It was his chair growing up in his father’s house. He wasn’t going to get rid of it until it fell apart.

She threw herself down sideways on it.

“Hey, watch it,” he said. “That chair’s old.”

“Sorry,” she said. She grabbed the jar of peanut butter on the coffee table, shrugged, and put her finger in it. He didn’t mind. He did the same.

They listened in silence until the song ended with an extended, gently fading outro that gave her goosebumps. Hardy paused the CD.

“Okay. Spill,” Daisy said. “Who is it?”

“You’ve never heard them?” he asked. He took more peanut butter from the communal jar and licked his fingers. “They’re still knocking about.”

“It’s sort of familiar. It’s not My Chemical Romance, is it?”

Hardy shook his head, scrunching up his face. “Nah. Not even close.”

“Then honestly, no.”

He picked up a CD case from a nearby shelf and threw it at her. She caught it smoothly and looked at the cover.

“Ninnn,” she said, perplexed. That’s all there was, besides a blurry man and saturated colors.

He smiled. “Takes me back,” he said, hitting play again. [Now, there was quick pulsing drums, electronic sounding, then softly sung lyrics talking of despair. ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D5c_Ic6g_LiU&t=YmIxNTVlY2U4NDczMWJlNzMxNDFkMGVhODY0MzQxMmQyYjJmN2IxOCxQZHBHdFRwdA%3D%3D&b=t%3APJsTYpSzYK7YQK4tJnybjQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fuglywettiewrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165914865887%2Falec-hardy-headcanon-anons-8-hardys-life&m=1)It was a bit overwrought, and so, so delicious.

When the song slammed into the wild scratching guitars and the screaming of the chorus, she smiled with him. She knew why he loved it. And why she would love it. It was angry, and passionate, and messy. It was brilliant.

“When did you discover them?” she yelled over the steadily more frenetic guitars.

“1993. One of my mates gave me their tape, swearing I was gonnae love it,” he said. He nodded his head to the drums. “He was right.”

He moved his feet to the rhythm, and turned it up really loud as the song devolved into what sounded like a a truck hitting the band onstage - drums crunching and guitars screaming to silence.

“Whoo!” she said, raising her arms high. Hardy extended his hand for a high five. She slapped him hard, but he didn’t wince. “Weird name though. Ninnn.”

“Nine Inch Nails. NIN’s just an acronym. Pretty cool looking, though.”

“Still. Weird name,” she said. “Got any more?” 

He bounced to his feet and found the other CD’s quickly - he liked to organize them by band name. 

“This is their next record. Depressing, but it has some pretty amazing moments,” he said, holding up [The Downward Spiral.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DCe3xOgg9mtk%26list%3DPLFPCXxKiNwSgiUPaVrWGmLrGwcZxXD4u0&t=MjI3YjM1MTRiNzZlYjk3MDg4OTNlNTQ3NjI0YWU5NTg3MTVlZDhlZixQZHBHdFRwdA%3D%3D&b=t%3APJsTYpSzYK7YQK4tJnybjQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fuglywettiewrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F165914865887%2Falec-hardy-headcanon-anons-8-hardys-life&m=1)

“Sounds grim,” she said, smiling. “I think we need proper snacks.”

He high-fived her again, and she ran to the kitchen for some Jaffa cakes, crisps, and two ice-cold bottles of soda. 

“Tourists will be walking up soon,” she said as she got comfortable for their little listening party. They took the path near the cottage to go stargazing up the cliffs once the sun set, and they would surely hear the music as they passed by.

She loved when they did this. It was just her and him, when he was happy, and thoughts of his work didn’t weight him down. Also, it was fun to imagine who he was then, before mum, or her. 

“Then they’re gonna have to experience the rising despair and existential agony with us,” he said, tearing into the box of cakes and pressing play.


End file.
